


Heart's Desire

by TopHat



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Doujinshi, Intense Level 99 Weebery, M/M, Obsession, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-01-27 19:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21397693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHat/pseuds/TopHat
Summary: A tale of true love, told from the perspective of those who would deny the love between Number Man and Jack Slash.
Relationships: Jacob/Number Man
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Highly Cursed Material





	1. Chapter 1

Number Man-chan kicked open the office door, novelty glasses gleaming from the LEDs installed in the rims. “We are out of katanas, Doctor Mother-kun.”

Said woman was in the process of entering data into a computer, and didn’t look up from her screen for a second. “First, you’re speaking English, Phillip, not Japanese. You don’t add suffixes to the end of nouns.”

After saving the spreadsheet and closing her multi-tab window filled with writhing men and women Doctor Mother put aside her laptop, got up off her bed, and threw on a lab coat over slightly-sweaty skin. “Second, no. They’re ineffective, expensive, and you’re the only person who uses them. Contessa just robs people whenever she needs something, Custodian has all the physical desires of a literal gust of air, and the rest of our staff receive no office supplies whatsoever. You are more than dangerous enough with just a ballpoint pen, and I don't see a reason to renew our contract with NinjaToolsInc.”

The sentence blasted Number Man-chan right in the _kokoro_, and he staggered in place. “I foresee unimaginable sorrow coming as a result of this action,” he muttered, the light of his glasses flickering on and off as he discreetly pressed the appropriate buttons on the hidden remote in his shoe. “There will be at least a sixty-nine percent decrease in my personal productivity, and my combat effectiveness will reach the lowest it’s ever been since my chunin exams with the Nine. The damage to my will of fire and zanpaktos will be too great for them to bear, and this interrupted supply chain will lead to dramatically reduced piracy.”

“Excellent,” Doctor Mother said, walking past the tragically-posed Phillip, luxuriating in the knowledge that the only people who would be seeing her letting it all hang out were exceptionally attractive. “I never cared for pyromancers or the cosplaying variety of parahumans, and the Indonesian cyborgs need a break.”

“You don’t understand,” Number Man-chan said, suddenly recovered and now walking alongside her. “Cauldron already operates at a _nakama_ deficit, and one of the few ways I’ve found to make up such losses is by defeating enemies in a specific manner. Usually it involves an esoteric arsenal of weapons, a clash of wills, tweaking sexual tensions that go unacknowledged by the main series while igniting the loins of the fandom at large, and an eventual reconciliation.”

Doctor Mother sighed, stopping mid-pace and turning to fully face Phillip. “We tried the kayfabe thing once, it didn’t work, and we’re not trying it again. Just shoot the people who are a problem and move on Phillip. God knows Jack’s found himself a new piece of ass by now.”

A single tear rolled down Number Man-chan’s face, eyes once more obscured by the glow of his glasses. “That’s a low blow, Doctor Mother-kun.”

She patted him twice on the shoulder. “It’s an accurate one, though. Contessa has sent me photographic evidence that his body count is nearly in the triple digits, and she hasn’t been exhaustive.”

When Phillip didn’t respond, Doctor Mother dropped her hand below his non-existent belt. “I mean the number of people he’s had sex with, not the number he’s killed.”

The member writhed out of Doctor Mother’s hand and suddenly Number Man-chan had contorted into an absurd pose, with one arm twisted along his side and the other pushing his glasses up, the lights flashing angrily. “I’m afraid that such an action stretches beyond the bounds of a professional relationship. You have insufficient heartbeat points to access such actions, and as of now you have no recourse to acquire more. Attempt when you have unlocked the next tier of friendship.”

Doctor Mother stared into the dead white screens, then looked down, then back up.

“The average married couple has sex fifty-four times a year,” she said slowly. “In order to ensure that I will never enter a situation with my mind in anything less than excellent shape, I’m attempting to stock up encounters in order to create a buffer and ensure my average stays healthy. Would you mind helping me?”

Phillip opened his mouth and for a moment Doctor Mother’s heart soared.

Then something buzzed in his shirt pocket and Number Man-chan’s face fell flat. “I’m afraid that a critical issue has come up, and requires immediate attention.”

Doctor Mother watched him leave, at first to enjoy one last glance at his ass, then to consider just how deeply wrong the boy had grown up to be.

“Where did I go wrong?” she muttered, shaking her head.

Then she turned to a sufficiently empty stretch of wall and cleared her throat. “Door to The Black Licorice and Cream Club.”

* * *

Virginity safely preserved, Number Man-chan made it back to his room, where he let the surrounding environment soothe him.

There were those who claimed to be Slaughterhouse Nine groupies. They would brag about the bits of victims they had preserved, or show off the photos of Crawler’s latest mutations, or tattoo stumps from when they’d met the Siberian and lived. Other members of the Nine had different groupies with different levels of popularity, but Pip was certain that her knew the most popular.

“Slash-chan,” he murmured, walking over to the wall-sized mural of Jack Slash. He was shirtless, with tight leather pants festooned by buckles and zippers galore, a dark smile that really needed to be kissed away as hidden depths became revealed. Pip had the privilege of being able to embed a few knives once personally used by the man in the plaster, and after the caressing their handles turned around to examine the rest of his collection.

Figurines stood like soldiers on the shelf, from exquisite Figmas to cartoonish Pop!s, each with their own charm, each one possible dimension of the Knife Boy who had so infected his heart. Doujins were packed from one side of the room to the other, double-layered, hopelessly disconnected from real life and no less precious to Number Man-chan for it. Limited-edition trading cards, produced by amoral psychopaths who didn’t care whose death they were profiting off of, shone like the holographic alternate-art treasures they were, while a mint-condition competitive Bloody Bastards decks (ranked for A-tier competitive play) was housed in a Bloody!Jack deckbox next to it. Games were stacked below, organized alphabetically, chronologically, and finally ESRB rating, never opened.

They were never opened because in the corner stood The Monolith.

The Monolith was Number Man-chan’s pride and joy. Every game which featured Jack’s woefully-nerfed character, every piece of fanart that lovingly rendered each individual beard hair, every shakey-cam news piece which caught a single frame of that magnificent jawline, all were downloaded onto The Monolith for Number Man-chan’s perusal. His usual timeframe for a full cycle through the collected media was nine point nine nine days, a number he maintained by increasing his consumption of the images, audio, and gameplay loops at the same speed they were manufactured.

Number Man-chan walked over to the 8k monitor, picking up his limited-edition Jack Slash body pillow from where it sat atop his Chibi-Slash comforter on top of Master-of-Blades Jack sheets. Husbando in hand he began the boot-up process, already at half mast in anticipation.

The pita-chip like exterior of the pillow brushed his cock, and Number Man-chan sighed, flicking through half a dozen windows until he reached the ero-games. “I miss you too, Slash-san. One day I hope to bridge the gaps between our conflicting philosophies, but for now I content myself with these simulacra.”

He held the crusty object out in front of him, staring forlornly into its cold, dead eyes. “I know deep, deep down inside, there’s a heart in you, an as-of-yet-reached second springtime of youth, which will bring you around to the side of friendship.” His free hand danced between the keyboard and his third leg, a dexterous waltz of desire which progressed the sim faster than most people could perceive and himself ever closer to climax. “I know that one day you will understand the power of such simple things as ‘companionship,’ ‘teamwork,’ and ‘naming your attacks,’ and that upon that day we’ll ride off into the sunset for our honeymoon. I won’t give up on you.”

Phillip grunted, the regularly-replaced print-out of Jack’s smiling face growing soggy. “Believe it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April Fool's Gift for Crab, happy pranking!

Saving the world had, until this point, been an ultimately bearable exercise in delayed gratification. Rome was not built (or leveled) in a day and Contessa considered Cauldron’s progress on the ‘save the human species in multiple dimensions plan’ to be remarkable, especially considering the nearly-omnipotent and barely-not-omniscient force they’d set themselves against. The number of stable parahumans was climbing, the number of sovereign nations she didn’t effectively command was declining, and her sex life was a flourishing garden of indestructible grapefruits and mathematically-inclined eggplants.

And then her power had directed Contessa to South Korea and she knew despair.

“ Nani the fuck did omae just fucking iimasu about watashi, you chiisai bitch desuka?” Contessa shouted, slamming her hand down on the convention center table as the unadulterated one-hundred-percent genuine anime japanese dribbled from her lips like runny nuggets of feces dripping out of a hemorrhoid-ravaged anus.

The Korean saleswoman manning the booth simply raised an eyebrow and pressed the panic button under her desk. “This is a booth for the purchase of EX-O merchandise only. If you want manhwa you should head to the commercial district. That, or buy a plane ticket for Tokyo.”

“Watashi’ll have anata know that watashi graduated top of watashino class in Nihongo 3, and watashi’ve been involved in iroirona Nihongo tutoring sessions, and watashi have over sanbyaku perfect test scores,” Contessa lectured her power, glaring off into space while baring her teeth at what she imagined the manifestation of her zanpakuto to be. While other lesser fans of the holy Trinity would insist that the face of God was alternatively unknowable or would turn one to a pillar of salt to gaze upon, she preferred to think that enough practicing of hand signs, understanding of her  _ nakama _ , and belief in the heart of the cards would allow her inner knowledge in the grander plan that governed the world.

The booth attendant buried her head in her hands. “Fucking hell, we have another weeb on our hands. Tell security to break out the tasers.”

Contessa ignored the pleas of the lesser being and began walking away, already planing her own redemption arc. “Watashi am trained in kanji, and watashi is the ichiban letter writer in all of southern California.” This insult would not stand. Contessa had not struggled through two whole years of public school Japanese while ignoring the please of the otherwise-unknown older black woman who asked her silly questions like ‘don’t you care about human life’ and ‘would you turn your powers to a less bullshit end?’ instead of pursuing the one true purpose in life like the more enlightened Contessa. “Anata are nanimonai to watashi but just another weeaboo. Watashi will korosu anata the fuck out with vocabulary the likes of which has itsumonai been mimasu’d before on kono continent, mark watashino fucking kotobas.”

As the jacked Korean men approached her, Contessa assumed the  _ kamehameha _ stance and continued with her incantation. “Anata thinks anata can get away with hanashimasing that kuso to watashi over the intaaneto?”

When the security guard attempted to lay hands on her, Contessa let her power take control.

Five seconds and two bodies later, Contessa tilted her hat down. “Omou again, fucker.”

An innocent bystander (after throwing up at the display of absurd violence and physically-impossible amounts of blood) asked, “[The fuck]?”

After letting her power translate the lesser East-Asian language, Contessa turned to the inquisitor and replied, “As bokutachi hanashimasu, watashi am contacting watashino secret netto of otakus across the USA, and anatano IP is being traced right now so anata better junbishimasu for the ame, ujimushi.”

“[The fuck is she saying?]” another terrified convention guest asked.

“[It’s American weebshit],” someone else muttered back, biting her nails. “[Let’s just shut up and hope she self destructs.]”

Contessa gazed over the cowed, false,  _ fake _ fans of Eastern Oriental media, and smirked. The fools. “ The ame that korosu’s the pathetic chiisai thing anata calls anatano jinsei. You’re fucking shinimashita’d, akachan.”

After delivering her final line, Contessa strode to the exit, effortless crippling anyone in her way, even as a sense of despair tore through her heart. Would no one else in the world share the desire for power she had? Would no one else understand the bishes, the himbos, the truer forms of adoration which truly signified fandom? How could she display her superiority to all the other inferior adherents to the religion of Anime Worship without also cultivating a greater understanding of what it meant to be a Greater Fan in the greater world?

Because Contessa had no idea how to do anything other than stare at sea water, she asked her power.

_ Seek out the Number Dick _ , it said.

“Door,” Contessa replied, stepping to the left and into the blank white portal which appeared with the command.

When she emerged from the rip in space-time, the sight that greeted her was straight out of a dream.

A mural of Slash-chan decorated one wall, complete with non-canonical belt-buckles and a charming smile. Another wall held a shelf of plastic rectangles, and after asking her power Contessa learned they were all video games featuring Jack Slash and taken to 100% in every way which didn’t involve his defeat. The bed was crusty, scented with the strong odor of dried semen, and depicted a distinctly not-tasteful nude of post-coital Jacob. A third wall was partially obscured by a gaming desk that housed similar paraphernalia (mostly limited edition figurines and fragments of abandoned weapons, thought there was also an abandoned bandage twice-daily sniffed).

The half-masted figure, dressed in a plain white dress shirt, Ralph Lauren Glasses, and nothing else, stared at Contessa. “Who the fuck are you?”

Contessa stared straight into the deep, sea-green eyes which dictated the fates of nations. “I, too, am a disciple of Slash-chan.”

She turned around and bent over. “In the absence of his gluteus maximi, would you accept this offering?”

A potentially-ominous silence followed, but since Contessa could predict the future she instead knew she was about to receive a good dicking, and instead began planning her next piece of Jack Slash X Harbinger fanfic.

_ Oh no, Harbinger-chan, it appears the Triumvirate have blasted away my clothes! How will I preserve my decency? _

_ Worry not, Slash-chan, for my seed is thick enough to blot out the sun itself! I will need some encouragement though.... _

_ Oh, I think I can make it happen... _


End file.
